If the involuntary surrender of his property to the Great Glade government had been the beginnings of Flett Grayle's unease, his real disillusioning began during his patrols.

There was no training period of any kind. Flett had merely been escorted into a side chamber and issued his uniform—a red jacket with a glisterjet splashed across the front, to be worn over his regular clothing, a simple black belt, and a single, small glistergun.

"In the Great Glade Military," explained the soldier who had supplied Flett with his gear, a gaunt, greasy-looking fourthling only a year or so older than Flett himself, "only the Freeglade Lancers and the very highest officers, like Commander Spifbart himself, get more impressive uniforms to distinguish themselves. For the rest of us, rank is signified by the number of weapons at our belts. To earn more, you must use the weapon you have, and use it well."

Flett examined the pistol in his hands…the hammer and trigger, the small glass sphere housing the glister, the discharge tube that channeled the glister's energy into destructive pulses.

He then lowered his gaze to the other soldier's belt. Clipped to it were three glisterguns, a sparktaser, and a pearly white phraxfire globe. This soldier had clearly proven his might. Perhaps he had fought off a gang of Omniphrax terrorists.

Another soldier—a beefy cloddertrog with a thick black mustache—came into the room as Flett clipped his single glistergun to his side. His belt was even more impressively decorated…Flett saw five glisterguns of various sizes and shapes, two sparktasers, and three miniature glisterbombs. The skinny fourthling sprang at once to a salute.

"Officer Groke, sir…" he began respectfully.

"Away with you, Kittix," grunted the cloddertrog, and the fourthling scurried away. The cloddertrog, Officer Groke, fixed his dull, beady eyes on Flett.

"You, newbie," he growled. "The New Undertown patrol is assembling in the entrance hall. You'll be serving with them today."

Flett nodded, and made to leave the chamber. A thick, hairy arm swooped from out of nowhere and caught him in the chest.

"Not so fast!" spat Officer Groke. "When you are given an order, you are to say 'yes, sir'. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"If you disrespect an officer, you're disrespecting that officer's officer, and the officer of that officer, all the way up to the Glorious Leader himself. And you wouldn't want to do that, now would you?"

"No, sir."

Officer Groke kicked Flett in the back to make him start walking.

Back in the entrance hall, a tightly ordered phalanx of Great Glade soldiers had assembled, preparing to depart for the district of New Undertown. Flett hastily joined the back of the group, standing poker-stiff and sweating slightly.

Officer Groke strode to the front and turned to face the phalanx. "March!"

Instead of moving towards the front doors, they headed for the third block of elevators. Officer Groke produced a key from his pocket and fitted it into a slot in the wall. A compartment slid open to reveal the buttons controlling the elevator. When the cloddertrog pressed a button close to the left edge of the panel, the doors underneath the large silver 3 all slid open at once…to reveal that it wasn't a block of ten elevators at all. Instead, it was a single, gigantic elevator cabin lined with twenty sets of doors…ten sets on the side facing the entrance hall, ten sets on the opposite side. Flett forced himself through a door in the middle, pushed up against his fellow troops, just as the doors all slid shut in unison.

The elevator ascended quickly, roaring as it rose, so that Flett felt like he was being pressed into the floor. After ten seconds, it came to a halt, and the other set of doors slid open.

Flett gasped.

This was the first time he had ever been so far from his home. He had occasionally strayed across the boundaries separating Ambristown from the Cloud Quarter, the Ledges, and the Free Glades. But never before had he gotten a bird's eye view of such a distant section of Great Glade.

They were disembarking onto a wide platform made of lightwood, which faced the industrial districts of East Glade and Copperwood. On the rare occasions when Flett had cast his gaze in their direction, they were visible as nothing more than an insignificant brownish-red smudge. But from this height, he could see the towering columns of smoke, the soot-stained edifices, the streets choked with glistercraft traffic. His stomach churned. Was he the only one in this troop of soldiers who was chilled by the sight?

The GGNN reports were always saying that the Glorious Leader's vision of a new world was nearly realized, save for the impure stain of dissent from within and outside the Empire. But how could that be? How was it that Vartolius Xax's perfect world could allow for such a hideous, spoiled place to exist?

But then, who was he to question the Glorious Leader's plans? He was nothing…nothing more than a loyal servant. Get a lot of people criticizing the actions of the Empire, and next thing you know you have a place like Omniphrax.

The phalanx of troops was marching towards a wide-bodied glistership lined with open-air benches. Already half of the soldiers had sat down, and were gazing at the market clearings for which they were assigned to patrol, far, far below. Flett sat down next to a leering slaughterer who outranked him by only one glistergun.

"New recruit?" grinned the slaughterer. Flett nodded. Below him, the glistership vibrated and floated up into the air, turning away from the lightwood platform. "You may be in for an action-packed first day," said Flett's neighbor, the bloodred skin of his arms tightening as he flexed in anticipation. "There are always slaves trying to escape from the New Undertown markets. Putting 'em back in their place is an excellent way to distinguish yourself."

"Escape?" Flett said sharply. "The slaves are trying to escape?"

The slaughterer cackled unpleasantly. "You're from a rich district, ain't you? Far removed from the action, I'll bet."

"Ambristown," said Flett, then added defensively, "I keep informed. I watch GGNN. And there's never anything on the news about slaves trying to escape. Why should they, anyway? GGNN says that slaves in Great Glade are accorded all luxuries and comforts that they could possibly need…that it is standard policy to upgrade their standard of living if their work meets expectations."

The slaughterer roared with laughter. "Let me explain something to you about 'em folks at GGNN. They take a little creative license. And why shouldn't they? There are some things that, quite honestly, affluent citizens like your old Ambristown buddies are better off not knowing. You'll learn plenty of those things here with us soldiers, just you wait and see."

"So," said Flett, turning pale, "the Glorious Leader isn't telling us everything?"

"He doesn't need to…we have the basics. All we really need to know is that the Empire is a society for the few. Those of us who prove our fidelity end up on top, and those who can't spend their lives working to keep those who can happy. Any other little details—a crushed factory revolt here, a woodtroll village massacre there—are never going to be important."

"But what if someone never gets a chance to prove themselves?" protested Flett. "It doesn't sound like those slaves have any opportunities."

"No system is perfect," snorted the slaughterer. "Who cares if a few filthy slaves can't make 'emselves heard?"

When Flett had woken up that morning, he had considered himself the most patriotic citizen in Great Glade. Now, he was upset and confused. This seemed a brutal way to organize a society. How could the Glorious Leader let it happen?

The hollow answer formed in the pit of his stomach. The reason was obvious—the slaughterer had worded it perfectly. No system is perfect. This was, it seemed, as good as it could get. If the Empire's optimal world had such glaring problems, he thought, how appalling must life under those Omniphrax anarchists be?

The glistership touched down in front of a platform suspended above the river separating the Free Glades from New Undertown. Flett disembarked with the rest of the soldiers and began to march through the cobbled streets of the market district.

Some of the markets seemed innocuous enough, selling the items mass-produced in the factories of Old Forest and the Silver Pastures. But up ahead was a large, gated complex resembling a prison. Barred windows lined the walls on every level, revealing disheveled souls stuffed into tiny, dark cells. Platforms were suspended from every level, crowded with factory owners, their voices vying with each other as they bellowed their bids. Flett could just make out the tops of other such complexes protruding above the otherwise modest skyline of the district.

The troop began to patrol. Snaking through the streets, they circled around each slave market twice, before turning and setting off for a different one. They didn't even seem to bother scrutinizing the other areas of the market…and the numerous violent crimes clearly visible in back alleys didn't draw any eyes other than Flett's. After the third time that Flett had urgently pointed out blows being exchanged over a sack of gladers, only to be ignored, he gave up, trying to avert his gaze from the sources of the yelling.

However, they shortly ran into something that did draw their attention. At the fifth slave market, they were greeted by the sight of two gnokgoblins fleeing in terror from a group of burly fourthlings. They were dressed in red uniforms similar to the soldiers', but also wore tall tricorn hats.

Flett recognized them as members of the United Leagues of Great Glade…an organization named and dressed in sardonic honor of the avaricious, cutthroat Leagues of Undertown who had controlled all commerce in the regions at the very tip of the Edge many hundreds of years ago. Ostensibly the Leagues of Great Glade existed to implement checks and balances on the economic policies of Vartolius Xax. But in light of all the nasty revelations Flett had experienced today, he now suspected that they served a different purpose…to keep slaves in line.

Four soldiers dashed forwards and cut off the hapless gnokgoblins' escape route. Flett recognized one of them as the slaughterer who spoke to him aboard the glistership. They attempted to change direction, but too late. Each one was seized by two pairs of hands. The leaguesmen instantly slowed to a relaxed trot, grinning nastily.

"Do you want 'em back?" called out the slaughterer.

"No," said the leaguesmaster leading the group.

"Very well then," the slaughterer said.

"No…please…" whimpered the gnokgoblin in the slaughterer's hands. The slaughterer laughed evilly, relinquished his grip, and backed away, as a brogtroll who was holding the other gnokgoblin did the same. The remaining two soldiers forced the gnokgoblins to their knees, raised their sparktasers, and pressed them into the backs of the escaped slaves' heads.

After a few seconds of piercing screams and howls, Flett realized with an icy chill that the soldiers were not going to remove the sparktasers. They would hold them there as long as it took…